The daughters of the North remember
by whenthemarshmallowmettheslayer
Summary: "They killed him," Arya told Sansa. The desperate words were whispered in her chest and Arya's short nails dug into her but Sansa paid the pain no mind; pain was an unwanted companion that Sansa had learnt to endure. That and there were far more important things to dwell on. (Or a fic where both Stark sisters time traveled back to the beginning after the end of AGoT.)
1. Chapter 1

It's stupid; she's a stupid girl though.

Sansa had wondered if it had been a horrid dream, worse than the ones Old Nan filled Bran's head with, but Sansa never would had dreamt such things. Queens were kind not two faced, Joffery was suppose to be a gallant prince not the person Sansa needed saving from, and the dog with old burn scars wasn't suppose to be the closet thing a knight should have been even though the man had never taken the vows to be one. (But why should he? Ser Gregor Clegane had taken such vows but that didn't mean he upheld them, that he was a true knight.)

Arya was thrashing wildly about in her bed but not a sound was released from her lips. Sansa leaned over, the wood of the bed digging into her chemise and unbruised skin, and had to grab a hold to Arya's little wrists so not to be struck.

A part of Sansa wanted Arya or anyone - even Jon who despite taking the black must have heard something- to remember what haunted Sansa day and night. Another part of her did not dare wish it because dying was not something Sansa wanted Arya or father to remember. One did not come back from the dead as they once were; Sansa had not died despite the abuse she endured even with the mantra she clung to (a lady's armor is courtesy), but that did not mean she was the same naive girl who had left Winterfell.

Arya was slow on waking up, her eyes squinted up at Sansa when she did awoke.

"Sansa?" Her sister croaked out, Arya's voice had confusion and grief in it. Sansa's heart stopped before feeling like it belonged to a startled rabbit than hers.

Sansa's shock was enough for Arya to get out of the loose grip that had held her wrists. Immediately Arya slammed into her and hugged her tightly so. That was something she never done before and perhaps knowing that and why Arya was acting so made hot, fresh tears trickle down Sansa's cheeks. And here Sansa thought there were no more tears she could shed.

"Oh, Arya," Sansa whispered into the roughly scrubbed clean scalp of her sister's dark and tangled hair.

"They killed him," Arya told Sansa. The desperate words were whispered in her chest and Arya's short nails dug into her but Sansa paid the pain no mind; pain was unwanted but none the less there companion that Sansa had learnt to endure. That and there were far more important things to dwell on.

"I know," Sansa reassured Arya. It was comforting and terrifying at the same breath to know she wasn't insane nor alone. "I begged Joffrey in court to grant father mercy and he took his head. He told me that was a traitor's mercy and he made me look at it and Septa's.

Arya stiffened under her arms. There was silence untill Arya spoke in a harsh whisper. "I'll kill Joffrey with needle."

"No," Sansa told her despite how she had thought of pushing Joffrey to his death herself. "Father will or Robb shall. It isn't stupid that you wish to defend yourself but I won't have you do that."

Arya was shaking her head against the  
warm chemise Sansa wore. "I forgot," she sobbed. "I forgot all of my dancing master's training I was so scared. I stuck that boy with the pointy end like Jon said."

"I rather it had been him then you," and those were harsh words but none the less true. Sansa had learnt the world was harsh and not like the songs she knew. That however did not mean that courtesy was not a lady's armor. Sansa had smiled and twirped oh so sweetly to survive in the golden cruel cage that was King's Landing.

There was silence besides the warm water rushing through the stone walls of their home. Eventually Arya calmed down and when she did she broke from Sansa's arms. Her eyes were red but her jaw was as stubborn as father's.

"No," Arya voiced, "we pass the sentence and I shall swing the sword."

"It's not that simple Arya, but we shall figure it out."

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A/N: Originally posted on ao3 under the pen name youngjusticewriter.

I wanted one time travel fic where Sansa and Arya are both vauled. They are both their own person who are enduring more than they should. They are strong but they aren't okay.

Those things and they're both planning Joffrey's murder. Maybe something ironic like Joffrey "falling" off a tower...

I'm in the beginning of Clash of Kings and I wanted to write this because I love both Stark sisters and they deserve better. I hope I didn't make them ooc.

This is my first time writing them and this fandom so what do you think?

Edit: I'm sorry about the missing words. I don't know why but sometimes when I post a fic (or actually it's been chapters in the past) some words just disappear.


	2. Chapter 2

The lemon cakes were warm things unlike the weather. Oh did Sansa feel joy at being here instead of the cruel cage of King's Landing ever since learning that she hadn't dreamt the future up (which presented a new problem but still Sansa was none the less thankful for having her sanity intact) but the coldness of the North's weather was not something Sansa had missed.

Suddenly there was weight upon her lap.  
Lady, the only besides Arya (though Sansa's younger sister didn't truly count since she was in the same situation Sansa was) who knew something was wrong with her, had moved so she could rest her head on Sansa's skirt. In another life Sansa would have scolded her direwolf because of the hair that would surely stay on the skirt of her dress even after Lady had stopped using her as a pillow. This however would not be like the last life Sansa had lead.

Putting down the cloth and needle Sansa without a word much less the beginnings of a castigation on her tongue started scratching behind her Lady's ears. A silent thank you for noticing (an apology that Sansa couldn't find her self capable of voicing) as the other girls, besides Arya of course, were twittering like pretty birds as they did their needlework.

They were children, Sansa had came to that realization weeks ago after her arrival of this time.

They were silly little girls, even her beloved friend Jayne. (I should have fought for you to stay with me; I don't know what they did to you only that your head wasn't on a pike like Septa and father's.) They were as green as green boys to the truth of their world. They've never seen a battle, they've never seen a man die, they knew nothing. Their heads and their dreams were full of songs and stories, the way Sansa's had been before Joffrey cut her father's head off. Sansa didn't hate them nor did she think herself any better than them. She pitied them.

(No, Sansa envied them.)

There was a story that Old Nan had told Bran who in return had loved it before he had become quite taken with the Rat Cook. (Supposedly it hadn't been a story at all; Sansa knew of the whispers of Lord Walder Frey's previous wives but her younger self never truly pondered the truth that could have been in them.)

It had been about a noble man who'd given his newest wife a key. She could explore any room in the house but the one with the locked door that the key he'd given her would unlock. Eventually the newest wife of Bluebeard could no longer contain her curiosity and, with her husband was still away on his trip, had explored the room despite her husband having forbidden it. The wife found out that her husband had been murdering the women he had previously married (that he might murder her as well) and, in the shock at such a horrifying realization, had dropped the key in a puddle of blood. She had tried desperately so to get the stain out so her murderous husband would not find out (because maybe if she didn't give Bluebeard a reason he wouldn't kill her just like the others) that she had been in the room.

The wife couldn't get the blood off the key so she had planned to run away with her visiting brother only for Bluebeard to return to her that very morning before they could escape. He had killed her far more brutally than the others after finding the stained key but the young Lord had escaped. He would bring a mob of not only the common people and the banners of his father's house to avenge the deceased wife that had been his youngest sister. The man's evil deeds were finally able to be punished but that did not bring the wives from the graves now did it?

While Sansa had never opened a door she had learned that her intended husband was a monster under the beauty and kindness he pretended to have like Southerns often said wolves wore the skins of sheep so not to been seen as the monsters they truly were. And Sansa? Sansa could not clean the blood - the memories of what was to come - from her mind.

(Maybe King Joffery had been punished in the life Sansa had somehow left but that did not bring her father from the grave now did it?)

As Jeyne laughed at the words another lady had spoken Sansa stared Arya instead of picking back her needle work. With a thoughtful look Sansa as she recalled her sister's words from the night Arya remembered the other life.

(Arya, who like Sansa, was alone though it was by her own choice to stay away from the butcher's boy. We're alone, Sansa had thought when she noticed it a few days before. It wasn't a miserable realization but merely a sad fact of their new existence that while was a blessing of foresight was also a burden that only the other knew they were carrying.)

Sansa picked up the needle to begin again; no, it wouldn't do to kill Joffery with the sword Arya had told her about, Sansa decided.

* * *

A/N: Originally posted on ao3 under the pen name youngjusticewriter.

Bluebeard's wife is an actually story (French if I remember correctly), but it doesn't go exactly like that.


	3. Chapter 3

The harsh air she drew out made itself known because of the cold. To her it wasn't cold though. It was thrilling, blood and heart pounded, as she slunk her way past.

He was coming (he had come).

What little of light there had been disappeared as she, with ease because she was the smallest, made her way. The bars were cold but unlike the stones that were beneath her feet she couldn't feel the frigidness of them as she brushed through them.

Her feet and labored breaths were the only noise here; they weren't here yet but they would be. It took time, the further she went from freedom the colder it was, but it matter not when she arrived at the empty spot.

She bent down and stayed on the ground that dug into her skin.

Soon, she knew.

[\\]

Arya's stitches were ugly, crooked things.

With a deep breath she set down the sewing needle. Her palms ('so clean', the cleanest they'd ever been from Arya's determined scrubbing, 'but still the hands of a blacksmith,' Septa Mordane had commented on earlier. Arya had not retorted that she knew Bull who been an apprentice of a blacksmith and she certainly didn't have anything resembling Gendry's hands. Why? Because Arya didn't know of Gendry or a Hot Pie. She only was friends with Mycah.) were smaller, soft things that Arya stared down at. She didn't want to stare at them any longer so she glanced across the room that carried on without her in not just conversation but life as well.

Being alone was terrible thing as well as an ugly experience. No Hot Pie or Gendry. Arya had kept herself away from Mycah despite the bright joy she had felt at seeing him alive instead of just in her dreams. There was no Sansa too but that had been Arya's choice. Their fight from earlier had been ugly. Uglier than any of their previous bickering from their other life. How Sansa could defend the Hound...

He had murdered Mycah not only did he deserve to beheaded he also could  
could get it the way. Why, Arya couldn't begin to fathom, her sister had defended him by saying he was the King- no, the prince's sworn shield was...

It, with Princess Myrcella's crooked stitches the speta didn't voice about, was enough. It was too much for Arya. Despite the cold weather of Winterfell Arya felt as though her tiny body was burning from her temper. It was too much.

No, it had been too much for a long time now and that's why Arya bit into her cheek though despite her attempt it did not dismay the tears that had begun to gather in her dark eyes. The taste of copper drizzled into her mouth as blood began to seep from the inside of her left cheek.

When Jeyne begun to whisper into an eager ear belonging to Beth Cassel Arya hurriedly made her way out of the room. That, not Jeyne's words, brought Septa Mordane's attention down. Arya could hear her yelling about telling Arya's lady mother and how she was disgracing them in front of the princess. Arya in return simply ran harder. Nymeria wasn't waiting for her at the guardroom; she too had abandoned Arya but now that Arya was thinking on it Arya had not seen a hair of Lady either today.

She'd go find Jon (and just Jon), Arya decided as her short little legs burned from running, because Jon was safe as he was loving; he wouldn't die but soon he would leave her alone for the Night's Watch. They all had left her though so Arya could forgive that of Jon despite the unfairness bestowed upon her.

Arya was breathless, her pants of breathe were heavy from her old body not being use to such quick and long movement, when she arrived. Jon merely raised an eyebrow at her appearance before speaking to her.

"Shouldn't you be working on your stitches, little sister?"

Arya could lie to Jon, though he'd never go out of his way to tell her lady mother were she was, but there were already too many lies piled ontop of her little and tired soul.

"Could I just stay for a little longer?" There most of have been something on her face because Jon let it go. Perhaps her tears had dried after all.

There was no familiar clang of metal during their silence, no sword against sword, or even the sound of a sword being pulled from its sheath. There was however thuds, grunts, and an occasional groan to be heard. They must be just drilling, she thought as she climbed up on the window and sat beside her brother. The stone of the window dug into her skin but Arya payed no mind to it because she endured worse pains. And, Arya had painfully learned (because every hurt was a lesson if you were smart to learn from it instead of going through pain again), not all pain was a physical just as not all could be pain could be soothed by a maester (if you were fortunate to have one).

"A shade more exhausting than needlework," Jon spoke to her, his tone was light though in humor.

Oh it's easy, she could tell him (stick 'em with the pointy end), but what's hard is after - much harder than the fear that had cut her down, her dancing lessons from Syrio forgotten, when she had thoughtlessly killed the fat stable boy.  
She didn't say it though. Arya didn't know about death or battle. Only Arry did and there was no place for Arry in Arya Stark's life just as there had been no place for Arya Stark in Arry's life.

When Arya didn't give any words back unto him Jon turned his head to look at her, his dark eyes narrowed at her in concern. "Are you feeling ill?" Jon inquired.

Arya smiled, her eyes did not. "A shade more fun than needle work," she answered back instead of saying she wasn't.

Jon smiled down at her before leaning over to ruffle her hair. Silence would have once again descended upon them after that if the men and boys below them were not calling out encouragement to either boy who were dueling. Arya stared down at the practice with dull eyes. Her thoughts weren't miles away but they weren't about what was going on below her.

The Night's Watch didn't need Jon like their family did (she needed him not them) despite what Arya's lady mother thought. Arya wanted to beg - to say something - at Jon to come with them just as she wanted she tell her father what Sansa and her not only knew but truly had lived. Her thoughts made Arya's chest heavy. Perhaps as heavy as father's Ice, Arya mused.

"Do you see Prince Joffrey?" Jon asked, her unusual silence making him uncomfortable in feeling.

Her dark eyes flickered to the boy who was one of a many behind Arya's nightmares - the boy who had her father murdered instead of being sent to take the Black with Jon. Her nails dug into the unyielding stone of the window.

"Look at the arms of his surcoat," Jon suggested and that Arya did. There - an ornate shield of fine stitching ordained the prince's padded armor. The arms were divided in the middle, Arya observed. One was that of the royal House Baratheon and that of the queen's maiden house Lannister. Arya narrowed her grey eyes at it.

"The Lannister are proud," Jon observed and perhaps there was a sprinkle of bitterness in her brother's tone. "You'd think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother's House equal in honor of the the king's."

No rebuke of women being important too left Arya's lips. In her head she heard him, 'My words lied. My eyes and my arm shouted out the truth, but you were n-'

There was shouting below that made Arya's chin jerk up and mind leave such memories as Prince Tommen rolled about in the dust. The little prince looked like a fish out of water, Arya coldly observed.

"Enough!" Ser Rodrick cried out before tanking the prince up and asking if Prince Joffrey and Robb would go another round.

Robb accepted the offer despite the tiring bout that left him sweaty and without a doubt left him with smell as well. The prince moved forward into the sunlight, his hair shone like the gold Lannisters were said to shit, because of the summons and Arya's nails dug further into the wall.

"This is a game for children, Ser Rodrick."

While Arya kept her laughter inside of her Theon did not. It was a short bark of laughter before he spoke up.

When Theon finished Joffrey of course had to open his mouth, "Robb may be a child, but I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword."

Oh now Arya's bitter laughter was hard to keep within her. Giving a child a weapon did not make them a warrior just as Joffrey would have sung a different song after what Arya had done to him in the previous life. If there wasn't a more unfortunate event to befall the prince Arya might have felt sad that Joffrey couldn't feel the irony of his words except such a thing had cost Lady her life despite Sansa and Arya's objections that Sansa's firewood had nothing do with it.

"Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it."

"Are you training women here?" The murderer asked.

"I am training knights," Ser Rodrik coldly informed the Hound.

"How old are you boy?" The burned man asked Robb who responded with his age. "I killed a man at twelve-"

And I killed a boy at nine, Arya thought as her oldest brother bristled at the Hound's words. Arya stopped curving her fingers, her nails no longer digging into the wall.

* * *

A/N: If you want quicker updates check out this fic (same title but I go by youngjusticewriter) on ao3.


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